


Killing Me Softly

by belovedmuerto



Series: Ring of Fire [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, faeries man. who'd have 'em?, this will probably end up biting someone in the ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One time Sherlock has to call on Ciara for help; one time John has to do the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing Me Softly

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure it requires a warning, but there's some arterial bleeding at the beginning of this. 
> 
> Part two of the Ring of Fire series; Sherlock is getting used to John having magic, and John really just has no friggin' clue what the hell he's doing. And, as always, Ciara is very much Winter Court fae and is highly amused by the whole thing.

Sherlock can feel his heartbeat high up in his left leg, a quick dull thump as his heart does its best to pump his blood straight out of his body--as fast as possible--through the knife puncture in his femoral artery. He tries to calm the frantic beat of his heart, so in contrast with the calm he feels, the certainty, the sense of “oh well, at least I’m going first,” but it doesn’t seem willing to listen.

“Sherlock, don’t do this to me. Hang on, _please_.”

It’s a peculiar feeling, his blood flowing between his legs to the ground, instead of to his feet, soaking his trousers, making him feel sticky. His feet are numb. He knows he should be more concerned about this, but he’s feeling nothing but some discomfort and a strange sense of detachment. The only thing he has to do is--

“John,” he breathes, voice thready and without strength. “John, I--”

“No. Shut up. Just shut up, Sherlock. Jesus, you cannot. You just can _not_.” 

Vaguely, he feels the pressure John is applying to his leg, _ah, that’s why the discomfort_ , leaning as hard as he can against the jumper he has pressed to the wound, muttering to himself about not having any kit on him, no needle, no thread, no handy belt with which to create a tourniquet. John keeps babbling at him, curses and endearments and panic, while Sherlock tries to remember how breathing works and marvels at how many of the stars he can see in the night sky above his head. Right above his head. Around his head. _That’s rather a bit odd, isn’t it?_

In seconds or minutes or hours or days or months or years, John’s voice breaks through again, drawing his attention away from the stars, some of which are starting to burst like fireworks.

“Sherlock, don’t you dare pass out on me. I’m going to try something here; I can fix this, I think. I have to try, I can’t--” John’s voice cuts off on a sob.

Turning his head because he can no longer lift it, it’s too heavy, Sherlock looks down the length of his body at his John. John looks back at him, tries to smile, takes two deep, almost steady breaths, and starts to hum.

 _That’s a peculiar tune_ , Sherlock thinks.

Everything goes warm and fuzzy, distant and yet cocooned around him all at once. The stars get even closer, they stop bursting around him and hold their collective breath, and he floats among them. welcomed and embraced. Sherlock floats for a while, pleasantly cool and detached, his body and mind waiting; waiting for instructions, for something to affect him, to give him purpose again. 

Warmth floods him, tingles up his spine and explodes in a starburst of light in his head. The stars dance with joy around his head before the brightness blots them out. He might groan with it. He might come, he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter, it’s just transport. The warmth builds again, centered high up on his leg, grows hot, painfully hot, cauterizingly hot.

His heart abruptly stops trying to pump all his blood out of his leg and sighs in relief.

His feet start to tingle, somewhere outside the cocoon he’s wrapped in; a cocoon of John in which he could happily remain for the rest of his days.

Sherlock floats for a while longer, warm and content, what’s left of his blood working overtime, humming in his veins, his heart chugging along quite happily now, each thump whispering _John_ to his blood, instructing it, _take John everywhere, to every cell and organ, spread him, keep him secret and safe_ ; the stars float around him, whispering things he can’t quite hear over his blood in his ears, over the hum of it, over the sound of John reverberating through his body.

Eventually, Sherlock opens his eyes. The stars are where they belong, in the sky, not trying to talk to him, and he’s having trouble breathing.

With extreme, exhausting effort, he lifts his head. _Oh. There’s the issue._ John is collapsed over him, a dead weight. Sherlock blinks several times, until he’s able to determine that John is, in fact, still breathing, and he sighs in relief. John doesn’t look well, though. There are dark circles under his eyes and his skin is ashen. Even his hair appears to lack its usual luster; it is as grey as the rest of him.

“John.” His voice isn’t working quite right, squeaking with the lack of oxygen, with the blood loss.

John doesn’t answer, doesn’t stir. He seems to have passed out, collapsed over Sherlock, and Sherlock hasn’t the first clue as to why. Clearly, the blood loss is affecting his brain function. _Is this how the brains of normal people work? It’s dreadful._

“John,” he says again, voice a bit stronger. He pushes ineffectively at the inert man atop him. “John, wake up.”

Still no response.

Sherlock can’t move, can’t dislodge John, and John isn’t waking up. His breathing is fast and uneven, he’s practically panting, and when Sherlock eventually manages to get his fingers against John’s pulse point, it’s also fast. _Shit._

He debates who to call. Mycroft he dismisses as a possibility immediately. Lestrade? Sherlock slowly feels around for his phone, but it doesn’t come to his hand readily, and the effort exhausts him further. Sleep sounds like the most wonderful thing to ever be created right now; he longs to give in. He knows he shouldn’t let himself fall unconscious, though. He has to do something for John. And he probably isn’t in the best way himself.

Who’s left?

Who can he call without a damned phone?

_Oh. Well. Damn._

Sherlock gathers his intent and what’s left of his strength and speaks again. “Ciara, I could really use a hand here. Now. Please.” He doesn’t have enough energy to be formal with her right now.

Sherlock waits for a few tense moments for her to appear. When she does, there’s a goblet in her hand, she’s wearing what he assumes is the fae equivalent of a party dress and a crown of flowers, and a scowl on her face. “You know, if I’d known you were going to call me out of parties--” 

Ciara looks around and then looks down at the two of them, John passed out and possibly in shock, Sherlock in a no-longer-growing pool of his own blood, gasping for breath under the dead weight of his love draped over his chest, and bursts into laughter.

“Thanks,” Sherlock mutters, glaring.

She calms herself after a few moments of unbridled amusement, giggling in delight. The goblet disappears from her hand, she wipes the tears of laughter from her face and puts her hands on her hips to look down at Sherlock.

“What have you two got up to now?” Ciara crouches down and moves John easily so Sherlock can draw a full breath.

“Thanks,” Sherlock says again, honestly grateful this time. He doesn’t care if one isn’t supposed to thank the fae, if she cringes at the sound of the word. She’s a friend, she can cope. “I got stabbed. I think John did something. I don’t know.”

She gives him one of those scrutinizing looks that he’s coming to hate; they’re so like his own. “You lost a lot of blood,” she observes. 

“Obviously.”

“You need help.”

“We need to get home.”

Ciara smirks. “What’s the magic word.”

She’s definitely been watching too much telly. Sherlock starts cursing in goblin; Ciara laughs until he runs out of breath and his voice gives out.

“Please,” he finally rasps, glaring for all his half-dead body is worth.

Ciara moves the inert form of John Watson easily and helps Sherlock to his feet. She watches with a quirked brow until he grasps the leading edge of his equilibrium before gathering John up in her arms. He’s not going to be walking anywhere anytime soon. 

Sherlock is pretty sure he shouldn’t be walking either; his head swims, his vision is blurred, and he’s not sure he’s going to manage to walk very far before his stomach rebels entirely.

“Take my arm, boy,” Ciara orders.

He obeys.

“And for the love of your man here, shut your eyes and keep them like that.”

“Why?”

“I’m taking you through the Ways. You can’t handle them like this. Trust me.” Her voices softens. “Please, Sherlock.”

He gives a single nod (this is a mistake), and shuts his eyes.

Three lurching steps later, she speaks again. “You can open your eyes.”

Sherlock does so; they’re in the flat. His knees buckle, and he hits the floor with a thud and a groan. _That’s going to hurt--OK, that hurts right now. Ow._

Ciara leaves him sat there and while she carries John back through the kitchen and into Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock stays where he is, head in hands, trying to calm his stomach and stop his head spinning and failing spectacularly on both counts. When he finally opens his eyes, she is standing before him. All he sees are her well-formed greyish tinted legs and bare feet. He’s never seen her actually wearing shoes.

“Ugh.” He tries to look up at her and has to shut his eyes again.

She sits down in front of him and looks at him. “You look pretty awful, my boy.”

Sherlock doesn’t even bother replying to that; he has bigger concerns than his own appearance. “John?”

“Will be fine. He’ll sleep until sometime tomorrow afternoon, I should think, but he’s recouping the energy he used now.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“I deduced it.”

Sherlock glares at her, and she grins--she must be enjoying the hell out of this, but then, Sherlock knows she’s always had a warped sense of humor. Well, a _Sidhe_ sense of humor.

“Fine, fine,” she concedes. “He drained himself nearly to the point of no return to heal you. I want to see it.”

“See what?”

“Where you were stabbed.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“You need a shower,” she continues. “Think you’ll be able to do that without passing out and breaking your head open?”

He nods. “Help me stand?”

She does so, murmuring something that leaves him feeling cool all over, clears his head but leaves him feeling floaty and light, carefully lifting him to his feet, her actions and gentleness betraying the care underlying her amusement at his situation. He’s always been able to tell that she cares.

Sherlock wonders if John can tell now how he cares the way he’s sure Ciara can, and always has been able to do.

She follows him as he slowly walks back to the en-suite attached to his room but leaves him to his shower. Sherlock stands under the spray for a long time, the water as hot as it will go, watching his blood swirl away down the drain with the water. Eventually, as the water starts to cool, he rouses enough to perfunctorily wash his hair and body, and then steps out of the bath again.

The cool floating feeling has gone, leaving him feeling heavy and dulled, smudged around the edges and exhausted. Stupid, normal. It’s awful. It takes far longer than it should for him to dry off, and he pulls on the silk pants and t-shirt that have appeared on the toilet, leaving his ruined clothes in a pile on the floor. They will have to be burned.

She is sat on the bed, against the footboard, when he comes out of the bathroom, her arms crossed, thoughtful expression on her face as she watches John sleep.

“Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is likely no,” he murmurs.

“Impudent brat,” she replies, and scoots to the side of the bed to face him. “Come here, let me see his handiwork.”

Sherlock does so, submits to her cool hands, her strangely intimate yet clinical touch, as she examines the small scar along his upper thigh where the knife had punctured him. The scar isn’t even red anymore, it looks like a very old injury despite having only happened earlier that night.

It’s chilling, that John can do this now, with just his touch.

Or perhaps that’s Ciara’s touch sending goosebumps running up and down his body, leaving him shivering in their wake.

She makes an interested noise when she sees it, pokes and prods him for a moment, and then lets go, sitting back and looking up at him. 

“Do I need to tell you how lucky you are?”

He shakes his head.

“Then I won’t.”

Sherlock sits down next to her.

“Can you stay awake for a few more minutes?”

He nods.

“Good. Stay here.” She disappears out of the room, returning in way too little time with a plate of toast and a mug of tea.

“Eat all of this,” she says, handing him the plate. He takes it with shaking hands, and eats it, despite the strange taste of whatever she’s done to it. He hands the plate back to her when he’s finished, and she hands him the mug.

“Drink it all.”

Again, he obeys. It almost tastes like tea, but not quite. “What is this?”

“It’s what is going to help you recover from the blood loss. You’ll sleep about as long as he will, I expect. You’re both a mess.”

They sit side by side on the bed. Silence descends, the only sound in the room that of John’s occasional faint snores. Sherlock stares at the floor, blinking slowly, his brain for once mostly silent. It seems to be in as much shock as the rest of him, unsure, waiting for something.

“You should go to sleep.”

“Yes.”

She chuckles, then stands and efficiently rearranges him so he’s on his back, the covers pulled over him. He turns towards John next to him, curling around the smaller man, getting as close as he can. John shifts in his sleep, accommodating him, making a small contented noise and snuggling closer to Sherlock.

Ciara shifts as well, leaning back against the footboard again.

“Are you staying?” Sherlock asks. It feels safer, with her sat watching over them as they sleep.

“For a bit. Sleep now.”

Sherlock does.


End file.
